


Salaam or Something Like It

by seinmit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29773017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: There was only one room available in Ayagoz, Kazakhstan, and only one bed in that room.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 200
Collections: Black Is Beautiful 2021





	Salaam or Something Like It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [textbookchoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/gifts).



Bucky came back to the car. His hair was a little tousled, like he had been running his fingers through it. He was biting his lower lip. Sam felt his tension seize up the big muscles of his own back. Bucky wasn't a demonstrative guy, but Sam recognized the signs of stress on him by now. 

He got into the passenger seat and fussed with his unseasonable leather gloves. 

"Well," he started, and then stopped. 

"You're killing me," Sam said. "Out with it." 

"There's only one room left," Bucky said. "And when I called the other place in town, they were full up. Apparently there's a wedding." 

Sam relaxed. He thought they'd been made or something. He thought that Bucky had left a trail of bodies. "One room is better than no room in the inn, Jesus." 

Bucky shot him a sharp look. Sam rolled his eyes in response. 

"So we'll share a room, big deal. I need to sleep in a _bed_ , Barnes." 

"We could go on to the next town--"

"Man, _no._ I'm tired." They'd been driving since Nur-Sultan, since last night—fourteen fucking hours on the road. It was only late afternoon, but the uneasy sleep Sam had managed on the road wasn't nearly enough.

Bucky looked down and nodded. It was a quick motion, with no wasted movement—an acknowledgment. Bucky's evident trepidation scraped Sam's nerves. They could share a goddamned room. It wasn't a big deal. He didn't need this guilt trip, not when they'd been on the road all damned day and the next town was probably hours across the Kazakh countryside. He hated being around this part of the world. It was too far from soil that felt like his. Bucky never seemed to mind wherever they landed, like whatever part of him that got attached to a home had rotted away with his arm. 

Fuck, that was a shitty thought. Sam really needed a break. 

He turned off the car and got out, locking it behind him. Bucky grabbed their duffels from the backseat. Sam took the shield case and slung his wings in their drab backpack camouflage over his back. The town was almost cute. The buildings were all massive and square, and many of them were crumbling Soviet-era concrete. But green trees were growing between each blocky structure, and he could hear a woman laughingly scold a child—he couldn't speak a lick of Kazakh, but the sound was universal. Most of it was grey, but the motel had a red roof and a cheerful, fading green sign. It was nice to see signs of people after so many hours of flat nothing. 

"After you," he said, and Bucky led them to the motel. He exchanged some easy words in Russian with the man at the front and handed him some cash. Sam tried not to glare back at the considering look the guy gave them. He smiled through the strain in his cheeks. Nothing to see here, he thought. Maybe Bucky should pretend to not speak Russian next time. Maybe it was weirder that a white dude with a perfect accent was bunking with a Black guy then if they were a pair of clueless Americans. 

The man smiled back, a sardonic twist of his lips, and handed Bucky a pair of keys. He inclined his head toward the hallway. 

"This way," Bucky said. He was putting on an accent. Russian, probably, but Sam hadn't asked. Bucky sometimes developed little personas for himself, taking advantage of the rolodex of accents he had stored in his skull to be a French businessman one day and a South African merc the next. Maybe that's what they should playact next time. Sam learned a little Xhosa in Wakanda. 

Bucky opened the door to their room, right next to the little lobby. The last one to be given out to guests. When Sam looked over his shoulder and saw the one bed, he understood Bucky's hesitance a little more. But it wasn't the first time he'd shared a bed with a fellow soldier. He couldn't be picky. Sam went to see about the bathroom and Bucky took off his gloves, using both hands to carefully check all surfaces for any lurking bugs. 

It wasn't much, but it was a toilet. That was all Sam needed.

* * *

Sam freshened up, as his sisters always used to say. He used the toilet and washed his face, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. He looked exhausted, an almost green tone to his skin. It was hard to stomach being that tired while unsure why he was doing this to himself. 

He heard someone laughing in the next room. A wedding, Bucky had said. He wondered if he could play the dumb American and crash it—he'd like to see a wedding. 

When he went back into the main room, Bucky had spread out the map and papers on the bed. He was sitting on the floor next to it, squinting at what must genuinely be unreadable Cyrillic chicken scratch if it made _him_ strain. The secured iPad they used for drops from the Security Council was sitting next to him. 

"I think the intel that we got isn't right," he said slowly. "There's an old Soviet research facility around here, but—"

He hesitated and leaned over some of the satellite imagery. He pointed with his metal hand, faintly depressing the glossy surface. "This is the base. But when I cross-reference it to the latest drop of communications that I just downloaded—"

When he sighed, he looked just about as tired as Sam felt. "I think the Kazakhs have been using it. Not HYDRA. It looks like they've folded it into their standard operating military."

"Isn't that the sort of shit that our intel should know?" Sam demanded. "Why am I just hearing this now?" 

Bucky grimaced. "I don't want to say that we've been—"

"Fuck," Sam said. The sound was ripped from his chest, cutting Bucky off. Bucky sighed and leaned against the bed, letting his head fall back. His eyes closed, dark lashes brushing his high cheekbone. 

"Yeah," he said. "Wild goose chase. Or—"

"Or if you didn't do your due diligence, we fucking invade Kazakstan by ourselves," Sam said grimly. "That doesn't sound like something Captain America would do." 

A huff of laughter. "Actually—"

"Not this one," Sam said. "Not now." 

"Yeah," Bucky said again. "And they don't know I read Kazakh." 

"Did you know?" Sam asked, caught by morbid curiosity. 

Perversely, Bucky laughed. "Nope." 

Dumb fucking luck. Dumb fucking luck and Bucky's compulsive double-checking, or they'd have killed a bunch of innocent Kazakh soldiers thinking they were HYDRA. How would Russia feel about that? How would China? They were nicely equidistant from both borders, now. A tidy little act of war, that the Council could play any number of ways. 

"I'm taking a nap," Sam said. It was too much to think about, just at this moment. 

"Good idea," Bucky said. He pulled himself to his feet and swept their confidential material into a messenger bag—in context, it would be even less good for someone to stumble over it. "I'll find some food."

"Nothing with horse," Sam said, and Bucky saluted. Sam wanted to resent it, but it made him smile. He shucked his jeans and managed to at least pull down the top blanket before passing out, early evening light seeping through the blinds.

* * *

The nightfall call to prayer slipped into Sam's dreams, and he woke with his heart pounding, already reaching for his sidearm. But it was just the little hotel room, with the ugly green carpet and the dim glow of the bathroom light sending things into shadow. 

Nothing like the desert, even though the muezzin could have been any one of hundreds he'd heard over the years. He was a long-ass ways away from there — a whole couple stans from Afghanistan. 

He hadn't thought he'd hear it again. He had thought he retired. 

Before he could get caught up in that mess of a thought, there was a rap on the door—metal on wood. Bucky, he thought, before he let himself in. Sam tried to look a little less like he'd been woken with a shock.

"The best food that Ayagoz could provide," Bucky said. "Absolutely no horse." 

"You took your time," Sam said. 

"Some recon of the area to make sure there are no jackbooted thugs comes complementary with UberEats around here," Bucky said, dry. 

"Well, I'll make sure to keep that in mind for your tip." 

There wasn't anywhere else to sit but the bed. The room was the bed, a sad-looking lamp, and not much else. At least Bucky turned on the light. 

He put a few bags down in front of them and explained the different dishes for Sam. 

"Fried dough stuffed with lamb, naan, cottage cheese, radish salad, a sweet cake-like thing, and what they called pizza. I don't think it's trying to be American pizza, though, which is a relief." 

Sam dug in. It was warm and hearty — simple flavors, mostly variations on meat and bread. It was good. Bucky ate exactly half, which meant he'd already eaten a significant amount as he was wandering around—it was amazing what that guy could pack away. When Sam's stomach was nearing full and the last vestiges of nerves had faded underneath that warm weight, he sat back and sighed. 

"What a day," Sam said. 

Bucky stuffed the last bit of "pizza" into his mouth and shrugged. "We didn't start World War III, so I'm putting it in the win column." 

He did seem more relaxed than he had a few hours ago, like the certainty of betrayal put him on more solid ground. 

"Are we talking about that now?" Sam asked. His horrible mood had receded enough that the question was sincere. 

"We can wait until tomorrow," Bucky said. "I'm reasonably confident nobody is going to try and kill us in our sleep." 

"Damn," Sam said. "When did that kinda sentence become reassuring?" 

Bucky's eyes were knowing as they met Sam's. "Long before you met me, I'm thinking." 

"Don't sell yourself short," Sam replied. "You've brought more than your fair share of excitement to my life." 

"Do I get a tip for that, too?" Bucky asked. His voice was even. Only the wrinkles forming at the corner of his eyes that betrayed he was trying to conceal his smile. 

"Aren't you chipper." 

"Good company." Sam looked for the joke, but there wasn't any. Bucky had let his smile reach his lips, and there was nothing but warmth in it. Sam liked looking at it. The silence lingered, maybe a beat too long, before Sam found words to continue their conversation. 

"What did you see in —where are we?" 

"Ayagoz. I found the wedding," he said, and there was a faint hint of smugness in his voice. Sam shoved his shoulder, and Bucky let himself be moved, almost starting to laugh. 

"No fair," he said. "Was your first dinner wedding food?" 

"They were all very impressed with my Russian," Bucky said, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He probably faked worse Russian than he actually had—locals always were more impressed with someone who was learning than the fluent. "You wouldn't have liked it—there was horse. It was delicious." 

"I've eaten worse," Sam said contemplatively. "Couldn't be grosser than camel." 

"Not as fatty," Bucky agreed. "And the milk won't give you the shits." 

"Nobody warned me about that," Sam said. "I learned the hard way." 

"The party's definitely still going," Bucky said. "If you want to go play American tourist with me. They were unreasonably friendly. Not many stopovers in Ayagoz." 

Sam considered it. He had always liked weddings, even in the heart of Afghanistan, when there was a risk someone would try and shoot the American soldiers trying to make nice with the locals. It was nice to see people make a life together. They were always happy, no matter how everything was going to end up. It was pure potential. 

But he was full of food, and the bed was soft enough beneath them. They'd driven more miles than he even knew, since all the markers had been in kilometers, and his bones ached. 

"Or we could sleep," Bucky said when Sam didn't reply. "It might still be happening tomorrow—it felt like that kinda party." 

"Sleep," Sam agreed. He stretched and felt every old muscle adhesion and sore joint. His wrists hurt from practicing with the shield. His knee was still a little swollen from a bad landing the other day. Bucky's gaze was steady, not bothering to try and hide his examination. He leaned over and ruffled through one of the bags, coming up with a bottle of ibuprofen. Sam didn't have the heart to pretend he didn't need it. 

Bucky fished out a few pills for them and gently placed them in Sam's open palm. 

"I'll take first watch," he said. 

"Nah," Sam said. "We don't need one. This isn't a war zone." 

Bucky got up off the bed. He was holding tension in his shoulders, all of a sudden, and he took a long time putting the bottle of pills away. 

"Even you need sleep," Sam said. 

"I don't sleep well," Bucky said. His voice was low. 

"I don't, either," Sam said. 

"More reason that we should do it one at a time." 

"Worst case scenario, you wake me up. Then I'll fall asleep. Or I'll wake you up. Then you fall asleep. It's no big deal." 

"Worst case scenario, I strangle you with my vibranium arm." 

Sam scoffed. "Stop being dramatic." 

He gathered together the remains of their dinner and tossed them in the bin in the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, the silence in the other room heavy with Bucky's consideration. 

When he was done his evening ablutions, Bucky was looking at his hands. Out, damned spot, Sam thought wryly. 

"I trust you," he said. "You're not going to kill me in your sleep. We're both going to get some rest, and then we'll figure out what to do in the morning." 

Maybe Sam should have been more patient with Bucky's little crisis, or whatever, but the Sam that had that type of civilian delicacy felt a whole lifetime away right now. Right now, Sam wanted to sleep, and he didn't want Bucky brooding over the bed all night. 

"If you make me do all the driving tomorrow because you—"

"Fine," Bucky said, out of exasperation. "You win. But you're not allowed to haunt me if you're wrong." 

"Your ass will never see the end of me," Sam said. "I ain't going quiet into that good night." 

"You're never quiet," Bucky said. He sighed and grabbed his toiletries from the bag, taking his own turn in the bathroom.

* * *

Now that Sam had won the little argument and was waiting for Bucky in the bed, he had second thoughts. It wasn't a big bed—not even a queen—and neither of them was small. He was bone-tired, but it had been a long time since he'd shared a bed with someone. Not since his last boyfriend, probably, and that had been well before he met any of these superheroes and didn't last long besides. 

He'd be fine. Bucky had the dramatics in this relationship; there was no need for his encore. 

Bucky turned off the light on his way back. In shadow, Sam saw him pull off his shirt and pants. 

"I sleep hot," he said. He unholstered the pistol he kept in the small of his back and set the Desert Eagle on the bedside table. Sam could still see the slash of black knife holster on his thigh against his pale skin, but he decided not to mention it. 

"As long as you don't snore," Sam said. He turned over, feeling strange about staring at the guy in the dark, and felt Bucky climb in behind him. 

The bed squeaked from the weight. Bucky was holding himself very still, not even getting under the covers. Sam was so aware of him, the tangible nerves, that it felt like a thrumming noise in his ear. He waited to see if Bucky would chill out on his own—but near ten minutes past, and he wasn't sure Bucky was breathing. 

He reached behind him before he could think and caught a clumsy grasp of Bucky's hip. His skin—hot, like he had said, and the soft fabric of his briefs. 

"Relax," Sam said. "Sleep." His voice was low in his throat. He heard Bucky take a shuddering breath and some of the readiness drained out of his muscles. Sam could feel Bucky's hips sink further into the bed, and it was enough that he had to take his hand away. 

Part of him wanted to turn over and feel more of Bucky's skin, see if he could infuse relaxation into him with his hands and—

Christ, he needed sleep. And these weren't thoughts to have in bed with his platonic friend. 

He closed his eyes firmly and took a deep breath. Bucky echoed it, behind him. He found himself counting Bucky's inhalations, and between one and the next, he was asleep.

* * *

The shield was bright against the omnipresent dust—the blue was a different shade than the blue burkas the women wore, but the delicate pattern of the lace was somehow etched into the surface. Red—

The metal detector beeped a warning, and everybody froze. Steve was there, but it wasn't Steve—it was Robert Redford, from that seventies movie, and he took the shield out of Sam's hands. 

"Salaam," he said in Steve's voice, and dove on the ground, using the shield to contain the IED just like that once scene, and—

Red, and pain, and dust. The roar of an explosion, fading into the ringing in his ears, pounding up against his ribcage. 

Sam woke up. He didn't sit upright, not like they do in the movies, but he was shivering—a sickly sweat clinging to his t-shirt. He tightened his body, trying to force himself still, and reminded himself: he was a long way away from Afghanistan. It had been a while since he'd had a dream like that—not a flashback, just a surrealistic nightmare. 

He focused on his breathing like he'd told countless other guys to do. By the time his heart slowed and he got himself together, he realized Bucky was awake behind him. 

He wasn't moving, but the sense of tension had returned. 

"I told you that I didn't sleep well," Sam said into the darkness. His voice was rough. 

"I wasn't sure if I should wake you." His voice revealed nothing. 

"Have you slept at all?" 

"Yes," Bucky said, almost apologetically. So Sam had woken him up. Great. 

"It's nothing," Sam said. He wasn't sure why he felt like he had to explain himself. Bucky knew from nightmares, surely. But he wanted to make clear: this wasn't a big deal. "It wasn't any—it was just a stupid dream." 

There was a beat of silence, and then Sam felt Bucky's hand on his shoulder. It was gentle, careful—warm, even through the cotton—his flesh hand. 

"Stupid dreams can be shitty too." There was no pity in Bucky's voice, and Sam clenched his jaw to try and contain his swell of gratitude. 

He felt the pressure of Bucky's hand lessen as if he was going to take it away, and before Sam could think about it, he reached up and folded his own hand over Bucky's, holding it down. Bucky immediately tightened his grip, digging his thumb into the joint of Sam's shoulder, as if to reassure him that he wasn't going anywhere. 

"I once had a nightmare about cheeseburgers." There was an edge of self-deprecation in his voice. "I still don't entirely know why. The dream was really centered around the pile of cheeseburgers—I was at some McDonalds. People were speaking English. It should have been normal. But all I felt was dread." 

Sam breathed out through his nose. "Well, I'm not sure if that's better or worse than a nightmare about Robert Redford."

He was trying to make a joke, but Bucky was too smart for that. He had seen that movie too, probably more recently than Sam had. He gently pulled on Sam's shoulder, moving him onto his back. Sam stared up at the swimming dark of the ceiling. 

Bucky moved so that his face came into Sam's field of view. His hair was sticking up, the curls he so carefully contained during the day a little wild. The silhouette made Sam smile. His eyes were close enough that Sam could see the whites of them, shining a little. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" he said. He didn't wait for Sam to reply. "I'm glad I'm here with you." 

Sam stared up at him. His free hand reached up and landed on Bucky's metal shoulder, as if he had to hold him down, as if he was going to shake some sense into him. 

He could almost feel the heat of Bucky's skin. "After all this—after everything. I wouldn't be here with anyone else." 

"Because you feel like you need to protect me," Sam said. The old guilt he felt about dragging Bucky away from Wakanda rising up in his throat—but Bucky shook his head sharply. 

"You make me feel like I can do good. If I can do one good thing, helping the world see that you're going to be the best damn Captain America—if I can help you avoid any of the bullshit they throw at you. I'm glad."

"I'm kind of an expert in bullshit," Sam said and he saw Bucky's smile by the white of his teeth. 

"You are," Bucky said. Some of his wild intensity faded, and he shifted to rest on his elbow, still too close to Sam. Sam traced the thick scar tissue where metal met flesh and felt Bucky's shiver. 

"I'm kind of an expert in bullshit," Sam repeated slowly. "And I'm getting the sense you're leaving something out." 

There was a warm, sweet feeling building in Sam's gut. He had made a career of jumping out of airplanes before he learned to fly on his own, and he had that same teetering feeling now—there was a drop coming, but conviction was what you needed to land softly. 

He let his hand drift up Bucky's shoulder and curl gently around his neck. He felt the flutter of Bucky's pulse underneath his thumb. 

When Bucky spoke again, Sam could feel it in the pads of his fingers. "I'm glad I'm here with you because I get to know you better." 

Sam hummed. "Closer, but I still think—" 

Bucky leaned down and kissed him. His mouth tasted like the traces of the toothpaste they shared, and the warmth of his bare chest seared Sam. He wrapped his arm around Bucky's neck and tugged him down, tugged him close, opening up for him. 

He licked into Bucky's mouth, giving as good as he got, and kept pulling until Bucky settled his weight fully on top of Sam. He was thick and heavy, warm muscle and bone, but it was a type of heat Sam welcomed. 

Sam rolled his hips up into Bucky, head already swimming from just a kiss—it had been a long time since he fucked someone he'd have to keep knowing, and part of him thought he should be more worried about it. But Bucky was making soft pleased noises into his mouth, and it was hard to think of anything other than that. 

When Bucky broke off to pant against Sam's cheek, Sam gripped his hair tight, digging his fingers into Bucky's scalp, and yanked him back. The startled sound he made was enough to make Sam even pushier, fucking his dick up against Bucky's hip with increased urgency. 

"Sam—" Bucky said, almost voiceless, in his throat, and Sam liked the sound of his name like that. 

Bucky shifted his body, opening his hips around Sam's thigh and slotting their groins together. Sam felt the firm line of Bucky's cock through Bucky's briefs and his own boxers, and he abandoned any thought of anything more than this. 

The momentum of it felt impossible to resist, like they were tumbling out of the sky together, and Sam just wanted to hold on in the same way that he had learned to catch Bucky out of the air. 

He heard his own noises muffled into Bucky's mouth, and it didn't take long before Bucky's kiss got clumsy—teeth and tongue and the slick feeling of skin against skin. Bucky gasped, and his hips twitched down into Sam, and came, breathing harshly against Sam's cheek

"Fuck," Sam said. "Bucky—" 

And Bucky groaned, his teeth digging into Sam's cheekbone, like hearing his name was enough to get him going again—and Sam followed him over the edge, clutching at him, sharing it with him, and trusting Bucky to manage the landing. 

They clung to each other for a long moment, breath slowly returning to normal. The white noise of the room's air conditioner kicked in, and Bucky laughed, incongruously light. 

"What?" Sam said. He could hear the fondness in his tone. 

"Was that part of my tip for dinner?" 

"You have a terrible sense of humor," Sam said. "And no—that was the end of a date. Dinner and a show." 

"Some date," Bucky said. His voice was rueful. "I normally know how to show a guy a better time than rural Kazakhstan and traitorous command." 

Sam jostled him. "Hey," he said. "I'm glad I'm here with you, too. I wish we weren't getting jerked around, but—" 

He took a deep breath and kissed whatever bit of Bucky's skin he could reach—his neck, turned out, closed mouth and sweet. 

"I did choose this," he said, to remind himself as much as anything. "I'm going to see it through. And I'm glad you're here." 

"Even if you're not entirely sure where 'here' is." Sam could hear the smile in Bucky's voice. 

He reached up to gently pull Bucky's hair. "That's why I keep you around." 

And Sam wouldn't have said it if he thought Bucky would believe him, but he liked the way that Bucky laughed.


End file.
